Snowglobe
by starsareFALLING
Summary: Chapter two! "Warmth settles around her, only for a moment, and she can smell the faintest hint of citrus and peach, but, soon, she’s being pulled away. The warmth makes her feel safe, and she doesn’t want to let it go, but she can’t—" Rachel/Quinn. :D
1. Chapter 1

The title doesn't make sense at this point in the story, but once everything plays out, it'll be easy to understand. Promise.

Not much of anything at the moment, but it'll be Rachel/Quinn, eventually.

A few points to mention. This follows up after Kurt and Rachel have their little Finn-will-never-love-you spat, but let's say for the sake of my sanity that Rachel never went through her I-love-Schuester phase, and Finn never sang that God-awful song in front of Quinn's parents.

(Hence, Quinn never got kicked out of her house and never moved in with Finn.)

Of course, I don't own Glee. I don't wish to. But if anybody comes across the rights to Lea Michele, I'll gladly take them.

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11.30.09: Edited just a tad. Nothing major.

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People think I'm insufferable and unbearable. They would argue that I'm hotheaded, annoying, and abnormal.

They find me overbearing and intense, and maybe even somewhat psychotic. At the very least, clinically insane.

They assume that a _prima_ _donna_ like me would never admit that I was wrong, but they don't know the whole of it. I sometimes think they underestimate my rationality. I know very well my odds of being wrong, and I know without question how easily my logic can be clouded by emotion. In fact, I question my reasoning more frequently than they might ever know.

No matter what notion of me they harbor, it doesn't matter.

Though they may not know, it didn't take me long to conclude that Kurt was right.

We both know that neither he nor I will ever be part of Finn's world the way we want. Although he's adorable at times, Finn has a limited span of attention, and that leaves only a small portion of his life for other people. At the moment, that vicinity is occupied by Quinn and her baby—and, honestly, even that's pushing it. Finn's life has reached its maximum capacity. Kurt and I both knew this before our little dispute in the hall, but, out loud, the words were different. They held more finality and carried more weight than they did the millions of times I'd run them through my head.

_There's no room for me._

After our confrontation, the words were no longer fluid and flexible the way they had been whenever I thought about them before. The truth was immediate and unquestionable. Kurt and I both knew it, but neither of us was able to set aside our wounded pride to discuss it.

Now that I've had time to think, to reassess my life and my goals, I'm fairly certain I'm approaching closure.

Without a doubt, I know there's no room for me in Finn's life, and Kurt knows the same for himself. In this silent understanding, both of us have found common ground. We're both intelligent and mature enough to look past our petty argument. We hurt each other because we were already in pain, and it was easy to lash out at someone else with conflicting interests; but I think perhaps both of us saw that, in times of need, our shared pain could lend the other strength that nobody else would be able to. So, we took a silent vow to cease fire and retreat to the line. From there, I think we both find that it's becoming increasingly easy to pick out the flaws we were blind to before.

At least, I do. The overall process is far easier than I would have ever expected.

I see now that Finn's not perfect, nor is he infallible. He has as many faults and inconsistencies as any other human being.

His empty, dumbfounded stare and his awkward movements never used to mean much to me, but I now find them distracting. Perhaps my infatuation with him was merely a momentary episode of insanity, a temporary lapse of determination to succeed. Maybe I was under the impression that being with him would make my life easier, that I would no longer have to endure the hardships of being unpopular. But whatever illusion I so easily fooled myself with has long since dissipated. I feel as though I can get back on track now, with the possibility of a newfound friend at my side.

Talking was tedious and awkward at first, but things have begun to smooth out between Kurt and I. We mention Finn, Quinn, and the baby in passing, though we've given up arguing, having since reached a sincere, upstanding consensus. He respects my opinions and I respect his, and I find that, lately, I hold very strongly to his doctrine of staying out of things we're sure we don't belong in.

So, when Finn and Puck begin to argue in the middle of rehearsal, I promise myself not to get involved.

Mr. Schue is conveniently absent, having suddenly fallen ill twenty minutes ago and rushing off to the nurse. I agreed wholeheartedly when he prompted us to continue without him because it's too close to Regionals to stop practicing, but without an authority figure to intervene if things progress violently, a sense of dread begins to filter into my system.

Still, it's none of my business. I care about Finn and I hope things go well for him, but adding myself into the equation will only complicate the situation further. I don't even know the cause of their argument to attempt to placate them. Even if I did, it's not my place—and I've never broken a promise.

Determined, I avert my eyes and repeat the last verse in my head one more time, because I'm having trouble getting the flow of the latest modern addition Mercedes convinced Mr. Schue to add to the setlist. Though my eyes are turned away, when a furious motion erupts from the front of the stage, I don't need anyone to tell me what happened. Finn just pushed Noah. Tension hangs in the air.

Fear creeps into the pit of my stomach, but I try to keep my eyes down and focus on the music no one else can hear.

_Turn the music up in here, I still hear her loud and clear…_

"Finn!"

The voice is upset and desperate; I can tell without looking up that it's Quinn. Her voice echoes in the dark recesses of the stage behind me. I try to keep my eyes trained on the floor, staring intently at a patch of stained wood beneath the lacquer. My restraint fails, and I catch her in mid-motion, rushing up the stairs, losing her backpack haphazardly at the bottom. Having missed the first half of Glee because she was in the nurse's office, feeling sick, according to Santana, she'd missed the first half of the fight as well. She must have come in just as Finn and Noah began to get physical…

I follow her every movement with more care than anyone would expect. I'd like to think that I'm only interested in her arrival because I'm worried about her health—which, due to my innate personal values, is undeniable—but I'm decidedly more worried about her safety.

I've never condoned violence. For numerous reasons, it scares me. Though people may assume that I'm nosy, or that I enjoy involvong myself where I'm not concerned, whenever I can, I attempt to keep the peace. My fathers have labeled me a devout pacifist. I despise physical violence in any situation. Inexplicably, I am particularly vehement about its eradication when females are involved, and the thought of Quinn joining the fray illicits a sense of unease. My stomach begins to knot in discomfort.

When Quinn finally crosses the stage, she pushes Finn back with a surprising amount of strength, enough to make him stagger. He turns to her with shock and anger painted on his face, embarrassment at being manhandled by his girlfriend in front of Noah. There is a moment of still silence, before the three of them explode at the same time.

"What the hell was that for? I was—"

"Don't stop him, Quinn. Let the little punk—"

"You're both such little boys! You can't—"

They continue that way until the argument is indistinguishable. Finn and Noah's voices grind together into a cacophonous baritone, while Quinn's rises from her subdued alto into a wonderfully furious soprano. If the situation didn't fill every receptor in my body with unease and fear, I would probably take the time to enjoy how beautiful it is…

Their argument grows louder, and I turn away.

The rest of the group is still with alert and hesitance. Mercedes and Tina appear mildly concerned, and Artie's jaw is set, with a crease in his brow that I don't exactly know how to explain. Kurt is half-standing, hovering above his chair. His indecision is obvious, as if he's unsure whether or not it's his place to step in, and whether or not he would be able to make a difference if he did. He catches my eye and stills under my gaze, guilty, before slowly sinking back into his seat. I wish for a moment that he would throw caution to the wind and implore them to stop anyway, but he doesn't. We both drop our eyes, and the war rages on.

I fix my eyes the dark patch on the floor just beneath the lacquer, and try to ignore the scene unfolding in front of me. I try not to look when Noah pushes Finn, or when Quinn slaps Noah, even though my body flinches away and the sound resounds within me. I ignore the words I can't understand, and I pretend I don't feel the overwhelming urge to cover my ears and sing silly little songs to drown out the noise like a child. I tell myself that I'm mature enough to handle it.

Somewhere inside, I know that I should stop them. I can feel with an ominous, unnerving certainty that disaster looms in the distance—but I have already agreed not to intervene. _It's none of my business._ I repeat the phrase to myself, to no avail. The affect is minimal. It may not be my place, but does that really mean I shouldn't do anything? One of them is going to get hurt, and something in my heart is trying to tell me that I know who will be…

Even if I don't know what they're arguing about, and even if I have no place to intervene, it's right to step in to save someone from getting hurt, isn't it? I'm not trying to involve myself in their lives; I'm just trying to save them from the damage they're going to cause.

For all my indecision, the time to choose has passed.

Conflicted, I can only watch in horror as everything that I could have done spirals out of my hands.

Puck pushes Finn out of his personal space, disrupting his angry soliloquy, drowning his words with his own.

"It's not even your baby!"

A single sentence, subject-predicate simplicity, and it feels as though everything has stopped.

Finn is shocked into a petrified stillness, the only sign of life his ragged, heavy breathing. Noah appears to deflate before his very eyes; his bravado falters, and his very stature seems to sink in shame. Caught between them, so small in the midst of their battle, Quinn looks as if she's made of stone. Her eyes are wide, stunned, fearful, and she implores Finn with thousands of apologies spelled out in their endless depths of hazel—but she's motionless, horrified and guilt-ridden.

In complete and utter astonished immobility, no one moves, nor do they make a sound.

Perhaps, in the recesses of their minds, they all expect me to interject with something spiteful, something that would allow me to glean even a modicum of revenge for all the times Quinn has tormented me, but I don't think I could if I tried.

Realistically and rationally, my response should be written in stone. I know, with a ninety-nine percent certainty, that Quinn should be the first to blame. Everyone in this room should hate her for ruining Finn's life, for lying to him and telling him that he's the father, when, in reality, she cheated on him with his best friend. _I_ should hate her, because if it weren't for Quinn and her baby, the probability that Finn would have been mine a long time ago is more than likely—but thinking like that makes me sick. My stomach turns violently. I can't muster a single tremor of hatred.

Maybe it's the way her eyes are slowly beginning to fill with tears that makes it so hard, or maybe it's that I can see the hatred she harbors for herself just behind them, just beneath the surface. Maybe it's the way she looks so vulnerable that it makes me want to take her into my arms, to hold her close and tell her that everything will be okay, because she looks like the world is crashing down all around her…

After what seems like an eternity of stillness, she moves. She reaches for Finn's hand, but he's already out of touch, and the hard, packing sound of his fist connecting with Noah's jaw causes me to physically recoil. Mercedes and Tina close their eyes, Artie clenches his fists, and Kurt looks away, his face pained, but no one attempts to intervene. Santana, Brittany, the football players—nobody moves.

Noah recovers from the blow, and blood bursts from Finn's bottom lip as he retaliates. Quinn begins to cry. Over the heavy pounding of their fight, she pleads softly with them to stop. It appears as if they don't hear her, but I do.

I find it hard to breathe, under the weight of her sorrow, as if something has taken hold of my heart, squeezing it without reprieve. It hurts to see her so devastated, so helpless, an almost physical pain in my chest. My fathers often humorously insist that, for all my determination and drive, I'm just a bleeding heart, as I cry in ridiculously copious amounts whenever Rent is on television, but maybe it's more than that…

Finn grabs Noah by the shirt, pulling back his arm to punch him again, but before he can follow through, Quinn finally does what none of us are brave enough to do. "Damn it, Finn!" she yells, and pushes her way between them. Tears stream down her cheeks. "Puck, stop!"

But neither listens, and in their haste to tear each other apart, they push Quinn out of the way.

She stumbles backward, and time seems to stop. I've forgotten how to breathe.

The neatly stacked, organized row of chairs on the floor just below the stage hadn't meant much to anyone at the beginning of rehearsal. On the floor, they were out of the way. They were noticeable, but not worth mentioning. In some places, their height just barely surpassed that of the stage, while in others, the topmost chair reached my waist. That hadn't counted for anything before…

Her ankle catches on a lower stack of chairs. Her balance falters, and she falls.

Despite the impossibility of the notion, my heart has stopped beating.

She twists in midair, and her arms are splayed wide, grasping for anything that might save her.

There's nothing there to catch her but another, taller accumulation of chairs, and they offer her no support.

They, too, surrender to gravity, and panic screams in her eyes.

She falls, but I can't hear anything over the blood rushing in my ears. Maybe she screams; maybe she cries out in pain; maybe there's a deafening crash as the chairs cascade in a rush around her; but I can't hear it. Silence overtakes existence. My eyes burn with tears.

She falls, and the world stops moving.

The room is still.

Time is still.

Sound is still.

The very fabric of the universe is still.

Everything is still, and I scream.

I scream—deafeningly, unintentionally, thoughtlessly, helplessly.

I scream at Finn and Puck for pushing her. I scream at them for not trying to catch her, for watching dumbly as she fell, when they were the only ones close enough to save her. I scream at Mercedes and Tina and Artie and Kurt for just sitting there, for letting them go on without even a single word. I scream at Brittany and Santana, the jocks, their _friends_, for closing their eyes and letting it happen.I scream at myself for not stepping in sooner. More than anything, I scream for Quinn, because it's not fair, because she didn't deserve it.

Maybe that's why I can only hear myself calling her name.

Before my voice even ceases to echo, I'm running. I push past Puck and Finn, elbowing them out of the way with all the force I can muster. I nearly dive off the stage, despite the fact that heights terrify me, because that doesn't matter now. All that matters is Quinn.

I rush to her side, tripping over chairs, over myself in my haste, but nothing is fast enough. By the time I reach her, blood has begun to pool on the ground around her. Her elbow is twisted at an uncomfortable angle. Her back heaves with shallow breaths and soft, pained sobs, but she doesn't attempt to move. She remains still and hopeless. I drop to my knees and help her roll her over onto her back, pulling her gently into my arms. She doesn't fight me, and I don't try to bother her with meaningless questions.

I cradle her to my chest and let her cry until she slips into unconsciousness.

As I hold her, I try not to think about the implications. I try to ignore the gentle swell brushing my own stomach as I pull her closer, because when combined with the memory of watching her fall and the blood that seeps from her eyebrow, I can't bear to think about what it means.

_What if—?_

The thought comes unbidden, and I can't allow myself to finish it.

_What if—?_

Again, I stop. My heart couldn't take it.

_The baby…_

The weight of her in my arms and the pain in my chest makes me want to scream.

I think, after a while, I do.

"Somebody call an ambulance!"

My voice echoes; once, twice, three times.

Finally, the earth turns. Motion erupts.

So, why is it that I still can't breathe?

Somebody races out of the room.

I turn back to Quinn and try to focus on her face, but tears blur my vision.

_The baby…_

As I wipe the blood from her cheek, I try not to think.

I don't worry about what this means for me.

I don't worry about the fact that she hates me.

I can only hold her close, rocking her in my arms, and promise her that everything will be okay.

_It'll be okay, Quinn. Everything will be okay._

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Can I just be the first to say that it is extremely hard to write a convincing Rachel-POV? Okay, good.

And, yes, I know. I'm horrible and inherently evil for pushing Quinn off the stage. Blame Finn and Puck.

(Don't you just love how Rachel calls him Noah?)

And now, the million dollar question: Will Quinn's baby survive? What impact will the outcome have?

Review if you liked it. Review if you didn't.

Review if you want me to continue, but, just so you know, the end of the semester is approaching, so school's going to be whooping my ass in a few days. It might take me a while to get anything done, but bear with me. Review repeatedly if you like. :]

Come on. You know you want to see how this plays out. :P


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two, up a little earlier than expected. Killed some time after I posted the first one, putting off a very important essay. Lol.

Procrastination: bad for school, good for fanfic.

Anywayyy, here's the word. This chapter is short. Very short, in fact, and broken into fragments to represent Quinn and her faltering consciousness. If you're wondering why it's written in third-person while Rachel's chapter was written in first, the answer is simple. Quinn doesn't know what the heck's going on, and writing it from first person seemed too alert. Third-person presents a sort of detachment.

That's about it. Uhmm.. yeah. It might suck; it might not. I changed a lot of stuff because it didn't seem very cohesive in parts.

I guess we'll see. Lemme know, lemme know.

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The world is dark, and an angel screams her name._

_---_

_Someone is crying._

"_It'll be okay, Quinn. Everything will be okay."_

_The voice sounds familiar, but she can't… _

_Everything hurts._

_It hurts to breathe. It hurts to feel. Her body aches. Small arms are wrapped around her shoulders, soothing her pain, holding her tightly, rocking her. Her cheek is wet with tears, but she's not sure if they are her own. Something thick and warm streaks across her temple, seeping into her hair. Her arm is too heavy to brush it away, and she fears moving might disrupt the safe haven settled around her._

_Sight is nonexistent. Coherence fades in and out, and her ears are beginning to fail. Sounds waver, louder, softer. Voices surge around her. They all sound so familiar. She knows them, but…_

_It hurts to think. _

"_Shhh. It's okay. I've got you."_

_The voice is strained and teary, but strong, and she feels safe._

_She drifts farther from herself, and is enveloped in blissful silence._

_---_

_A sharp motion jolts her from sleep._

_The world feels like it's racing. The warmth that surrounded her before has abandoned her, and a dull ache throbs throughout her body. Her forehead burns with fever and infection, though it feels as if she's slowly going numb. Her eyes refuse to open, heavy and listless._

_Her head throbs as static assaults her ears. _

_Hazy at first, the voices return._

"_I should go with her. I'm her boyfriend."_

_Finn?_

"_I'm the father of her unborn child!"_

_Puck…_

"_You're the ones who did this to her."_

_Who…?_

_The world tilts and jerks, and her mind is unsettled. Things rush in a flurry around her, but she's blind to the motion. Even though she can't see it, the surge makes her nauseous. When silence falls and the world rights itself, the reprieve is brief. A man's voice begins listing impersonal descriptions, and, for some reason, everything feels wrong—but a small, warm hand settles over her own, and another slips beneath, holding her hand gently in between, and soft lips press into her wrist, and she slips into darkness once more._

_---_

_Light flashes behind her closed eyelids. The world is spinning, and everything smells like antiseptic and disinfectant. Her ears are ringing. _

_Voices rush around her, and machinery pulses angry, relentless tones. She doesn't know what is happening, and she begins to panic…_

"_It's okay, Quinn. I'm here."_

_That voice…_

_Abrupt movement jars her concentration. Warmth settles around her, only for a moment, and she can smell the faintest hint of citrus and peach, but, soon, she's being pulled away. The warmth makes her feel safe, and she doesn't want to let it go, but she can't—_

"_I'll be right outside. Everything will be okay."_

_A soft kiss is pressed to her forehead, and something inexplicable settles in her chest._

_She's determined to understand. _

_It takes all she has in her to force her eyes open. The action itself is painful, and the light sears her retinas. Exertion drains her of her energy much too quickly, but just before she surrenders to exhaustion, she catches a glimpse of chestnut hair and chocolate eyes, and there's an earnest promise in them that soothes her discomfort. "Everything will be okay."_

_She feels at peace, knowing her guardian angel will be there when she wakes._

_Consciousness slips beyond her reach._

_Rachel…_

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So, what did you think? Let it alllllllll out. Honestly, I want to know. Reviews are my motivation.

Fueled By Ramen? Nope. Fueled By Reviews. :D


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